The Great Fall of Adam O'Cearlach
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Lawrence's confidence in his own successor turns out to be misplaced. Follows 'The Wordsmith & The Dilemma'.
1. Chapter 1

§ § § -- May 2, 1984

"So this is the day Lawrence's friend Adam arrives," Leslie observed at breakfast on Wednesday morning. "I have to admit to some trepidation, Mr. Roarke. With a name like O'Cearlach, he can't be anything but Irish, and you know how much magic is in their folklore."

Roarke looked across the table at his daughter and smiled. "That could as easily be an advantage as not," he pointed out. "It's surprisingly difficult to find an assistant who can accept the mysteries and oddities of Fantasy Island. You yourself were in awe for a very long time after you first arrived here, don't forget."

"I know," Leslie said, "and sometimes I think I'll never quite lose it. But then again, Tattoo was in awe a lot, and you didn't seem to mind."

Roarke's smile turned reminiscent. "Tattoo was a special case," he said. "He had a way of being astounded at something new and yet quickly accepting it. That's how he could sometimes play parts in fantasies and adopt the knowing attitude of the insider." He focused on her and added with a teasing twinkle in his dark eyes, "Perhaps that's the way to remove that 'outsider's mien' from you…have you play supporting roles in certain fantasies."

Leslie lowered her head a little and directed a wary look at him through her bangs. "Not if I have to be the Red Baron, the way Tattoo had to do so often."

Roarke laughed heartily. "So Tattoo told you tales out of school, then, did he? As a matter of fact, Leslie, having you play unobtrusive roles in some fantasies might be a beneficial experience for you; but I would never put you in danger, and you should know that. I think you had better finish your breakfast. Lawrence should be here any moment, and it won't be long before we meet his friend from Ireland and find out precisely what we're dealing with."

Leslie murmured something in assent and stared reflectively at her plate for long enough that Roarke soon noticed she wasn't eating. "Are you all right, my daughter?"

She lifted her suddenly melancholy gaze, aiming it somewhere over the duck pond across the lane from them, and murmured wistfully, "I wish Tattoo could come back."

At that Roarke abandoned his own nearly empty plate, pulling up the nearest chair to hers and taking both her hands in his. "I know," he admitted quietly, attracting Leslie's surprised stare. "So do I, but I'm afraid it can't be helped. We both know he is extremely busy, particularly since his last letter to us." In this recently received missive, Tattoo had caught up his former boss and his honorary niece on his life as it was now; he was running a very popular art gallery in which he sold not only his own paintings, but those of many other unknown artists as well. He was frantically busy and rarely had time to himself anymore. Furthermore, Solange was expecting their first child in September, which news had delighted both Roarke and Leslie. They knew Tattoo was very happy with his life, and wouldn't begrudge him that for the world.

"But I know you miss him," Leslie persisted softly, her eyes beginning to fill with tears in spite of herself. "I do. I can't believe how much I miss him. I'm glad he's so happy, but it's just that he left such a huge hole in our lives. I mean, we thought Lawrence was really settling in, but I have to wonder if he felt inadequate in Tattoo's place."

"Surely not," Roarke said, frowning slightly. "I never detected that feeling about him. As a matter of fact, Lawrence has been a most able and efficient assistant."

Leslie peered searchingly at her adoptive father through the standing tears. "Maybe so," she finally said, "but as I recall, you never once addressed him as 'my friend'."

Roarke's startled glance met hers for a moment; then he closed his eyes. He never said a word in response, but after a moment, when he opened them again, he was staring into space. After a long time he nodded, squeezing her hands absently, his dark eyes very far away.

-------------------------

"Adam, old chap, it's smashing to see you again!" Roarke and Leslie watched with undisguised astonishment as Lawrence, beaming like a madman, met his friend in the middle of the clearing and unabashedly hugged him. For all the world, he could have been greeting a long-lost brother. They couldn't quite see who it was Lawrence was welcoming so heartily, but within seconds the tall Englishman planted a hand between the new arrival's shoulder blades and directed him to where Roarke and Leslie waited. "Sir, miss, this is my oldest and dearest friend, Adam O'Cearlach, from Dublin, Ireland. Adam, this is my superior, Mr. Roarke, of whom you undoubtedly have already heard; and this is his daughter, Miss Leslie Hamilton."

Adam O'Cearlach had gravely shaken hands with Roarke at the moment of introduction; when Lawrence presented Leslie, however, his expression changed completely. "Hamilton, is it now? A good, sound Irish name, lass!" He smiled especially at her, lifted her hand in his own and kissed the back of it. Totally stunned, Leslie stared at him blankly. "An' a lovely colleen ye are too, I might add." The smile acquired some unnameable quality that instantly alerted Roarke, who made a mental note and decided to leave it at that for the moment. After all, the Irishman had barely arrived, and it was only fair to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Adam O'Cearlach was a good bit younger than Lawrence, actually. Whereas Lawrence appeared to be in his early forties, Adam was twenty-eight, as he shortly explained to Roarke and Leslie once they had all repaired to the main house and Mariki had served refreshments. "I'm certain ye must be wonderin' how Lawrence here an' I could be such close friends for so long," he observed, speaking easily in a broad Irish brogue that was constantly punctuated with rolled R's. "Me sainted da died before I was old enough to remember him, y'see, an' me mother an' I moved to England for a time. The Cornwell-McKinnie family lived just down the road, an' Lawrence became the brother I never had. In some ways he was even like a second da to me, an' the good Lord knows I needed one."

"Quite so," Lawrence interjected with a fond glance at Adam. "He was very much the wild child. His mother couldn't seem to keep him in line, and I spent enough time watching my younger sisters that I simply accepted him as another sibling. Adam is also the brother that I never had."

"Anyhoo," Adam picked up the narrative, "Lawrence received a scholarship to university in me hometown of Dublin, an' when he went back, he took me along with him. By then me poor ma, of sainted memory, had passed on, an' there was no one to keep me in check." Adam grinned. "I gave Lawrence here the divil of a time, I did. Always runnin' around lookin' for mischief to get into, I was. But by the time Lawrence moved back to England, I was old enough to be shiftin' for meself, an' somehoo I was blessed with the luck o' the Irish in spades."

"The man is better than a horseshoe or a four-leaf clover," Lawrence remarked dryly.

"Four-leaf clovers indeed, Lawrence! Why, y'know I raise a whole field of 'em at me cottage," Adam said, in the way he might have reminded someone that it was time to feed the dog. "An' besides, there's a reason for me good luck, Mr. Roarke, sir. When I was but a lad of eighteen, I caught me a leprechaun."

"No kidding!" blurted Leslie, the first words she had spoken since Adam's arrival.

"Aye, indeed I did, lassie!It wasno easy trick, that. Th' slippery little divil was all over the place, y'know. But I'd spent me childhood catchin' frogs, an' ye know the way they leap about and are nivver still. Aye, he gave me quite the workout, he did."

"How did you find him? By accident, or what?" Leslie asked, eyes huge with fascination.

"Oh aye, the little divil was careless, just snoozin' in the grass, an' I tripped right over him! Sarved 'im right too." Adam chuckled merrily, clearly taken with the memory. "He could run, aye, but I always could go like the wind. Chasin' the wee divil halfway across the Emerald Isle and nivver once stoppin'. Soon as I caught him, he knew it was all over. Th' wee sprite was so desperate to get away, he promised me three pots o' gold, an' I held him to it too!" Adam chuckled again. "Aye, I have nothin' to worry aboot for th' rrr-rrrest o' me days. Lawrence here helped me invest wisely, an' I can live off the interest and sit at me little cottage at home in Dublin, an' raise four-leafers for the tourists. Just send 'em off into the field so they can find their own clovers, an' they're delighted. Think they have themselves a real Irish souvenir, they do." Adam paused long enough to take a sip from his glass, then seemed to snap back to the present and focused on Roarke. "Ah, but enough o' me! I do tend to ramble on. I merely thought I should explain why I was so reluctant to come here. Lawrence had all he could do to talk me into it, y'see."

"There's no challenge to raising clover," Lawrence said, with a courtly, almost snobbish sniff of disdain. "You were becoming bored stiff, Adam, and I know it even if you don't. This is the sort of job you shall simply love."

Adam cleared his throat. "Y'could be right, Lawrence, that y'could. Frankly, if ye'd told me Mr. Roarke's daughter was such a pretty colleen, I might've been persuaded all the easier." He studied Leslie, who blushed deeply and let her head fall so that her hair curtained her face. She looked as if she were trying to shrink herself into invisibility.

Roarke, who had been relaxed in his chair, now sat up, a businesslike aura about him. "I believe it's time for the formal interview," he said. That was all it took for Leslie to jump out of her chair and rush gratefully from the room. Lawrence got up and clapped Adam on the shoulder.

"I'd wish you good luck, Adam, but you hardly need that," he said cheerfully. "I must be about my duties. When you're ready, sir, you can send him to my cottage, and I'll take care of him. Excuse me." He left the room, whistling as he went, something Roarke had never heard him do. He concealed his surprise and focused his attention on Adam.

"Shall we commence with the interview?" he suggested. Adam nodded and sat up straight, and Roarke began to ask questions, listening carefully to the answers. But he didn't forget that mental note he'd made earlier, nor did he dismiss Adam's apparent interest in Leslie. Only time would tell whether Adam would fit in, as Lawrence seemed so confident he would.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- May 2, 1984

Roarke had quite a bit to consider after conducting his interview with Adam O'Cearlach. The Irishman seemed to accept all things magical as if everyone on earth dealt with them day in and day out; in fact, he treated them with what appeared to be utter indifference. Roarke wasn't quite sure whether this was good or bad: it could be an advantage, since Adam would not find Roarke's livelihood too peculiar for him; but it could also be a problem because Adam might turn out to lack the necessary respect for the properties of the tools of the trade. Not only that, but there was something about the way Adam reacted to Leslie, and something more about the way she in turn reacted to him.

A couple of days after Adam's arrival, Roarke finally decided, and duly informed Adam, that he was hired on a probationary basis. When he told Lawrence and Leslie about this at dinner that evening, Lawrence, of course, was delighted. Leslie looked dubious but said nothing. Roarke, as always, noted her response to the news, but kept his thoughts to himself. Only time would tell whether Adam would fit in.

"He will be an asset to you," Lawrence insisted happily. "Never doubt it for one moment, sir. I'll have him with me throughout the weekend learning the ropes, and before you know it it'll be as if he's always been here." Leslie's expression grew more dubious still, yet she continued to hold her tongue. Roarke began to get a little suspicious of his daughter's silence; if something bothered her as much as Adam seemed to be doing, she tended to express her opinion as promptly as she tactfully could. Lawrence's presence usually didn't stop her from making her feelings known.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm," Roarke said, "but you will forgive me if I reserve judgment for the time being."

"Well, but of course," Lawrence said generously. "You don't know him as well as I do, so it's only natural for you to be cautious. But you may rest assured…"

"Yes, I know," Roarke broke in. "Thank you, Lawrence."

Lawrence replied, "You're very welcome, sir. Do excuse me. I had intended to show Adam some of the sights before the evening grows too dark." Roarke nodded, and Lawrence left the table, whistling. Once he was out of earshot, Roarke focused on Leslie.

"A penny for your thoughts," he teased her gently.

Leslie looked up and managed a small, twisted smile. "I'm not sure they're worth that much," she said. "I don't know. Something about Adam just bothers me. Maybe it's the way he looks at me."

"How exactly does he look at you?" Roarke inquired.

She considered it for a moment. "Well, this might sound stupid, but…every time I catch him looking at me, he has this…this _look_ on his face. I can't really describe it. It's sort of like…romantic interest, I suppose." She caught Roarke's raised eyebrow and rolled her eyes. "I know, I know. How can I possibly expect to know what that would look like when I've never even had a date, let alone a boyfriend? But I've seen enough couples fall in love on this island to know what romantic expressions look like, Mr. Roarke, and that's the sort of look he has. But there's more to it than that." She fell silent again, considering.

"Go on," Roarke prompted her after a few minutes.

She shrugged in slow motion, holding her shoulders in place for a long, uneasy moment once they'd risen. "There's something…calculating about him. I don't like to say it quite like that, because it probably makes me sound like I think he's a crook or something. I suppose what I mean is that he has something in mind beyond simple…"

"Courting?" Roarke offered.

Leslie let her shoulders fall and smiled faintly. "Yeah, I guess that's a good word for it. To put it bluntly, it looks like he's romantically interested in me, and it also looks like he's brewing up some sort of plan to get me involved with him. If you see what I mean."

Roarke sat back and regarded his empty plate for about ten seconds. "As a matter of fact, I've noticed the looks he's given you," he admitted. "You're proving to be a good reader of faces, Leslie. He does have a strange mien about him when his attention is focused on you. I take it, however, that you don't share his interest."

"Heck no," she blurted. "He's almost ten years older than I am, for one thing. He's too overt in the way he eyeballs me, and it makes me nervous."

"I see," he said contemplatively. "Do you think you can work with him otherwise?"

Leslie started to reply, thought twice about it, then reluctantly met Roarke's gaze and said with a sigh, "I have to be honest. I don't know yet. He hasn't been here long enough."

Roarke nodded once or twice, absorbing her reply. "All right. I appreciate your honesty, Leslie, and I will take your feelings into consideration. You realize, of course, that suspicions alone are not enough to convict a man." His daughter nodded in understanding. "We can only give him time and see exactly what sort of personality we are dealing with."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Misses Miranda and Marina Lewis stood in front of Roarke's desk late in the morning of May 5, about an hour after their initial arrival on the island, and stated flatly, "We're sick of being identical twins. We want to be completely separate and different from each other."

"But you are," Roarke contradicted. "I see before me two separate, individual human beings."

"Unless ye were Siamese twins once," remarked Adam with a wide grin. A dead silence fell in the room and everyone turned to stare at him; not one of them shared his amusement. Faced with this, Adam's grin faded rapidly and he cleared his throat. Lawrence looked thoroughly mortified, and when he thought no one was watching either him or Adam, gave his friend a sternly sorrowful look that said, _I am deeply disappointed in you_. Roarke caught it and had to restrain himself from smiling.

Miranda Lewis, having apparently decided that Adam was sufficiently cowed, refocused on Roarke and said, "Well, all right, Mr. Roarke, we're two separate entities, I'll give you that. But we're not different at all."

"Just look at us!" Marina Lewis put in. "We look exactly alike. People tease us about being clones. We have a way of finishing each other's sentences, and sometimes Miranda seems to read my mind."

"And Marina seems to be reading mine," Miranda added. "Even our names are too close for comfort. I mean, rearrange a couple of letters in my sister's name and add one, and you have _my_ name. That's just too much of being alike. We're fed up, Mr. Roarke, pure and simple. That's why we want to be as different as we possibly can, even though it's only for the weekend."

Roarke nodded. "Understandable. Very well then. Lawrence, please bring me that decanter on the table there." Lawrence picked up the cut-glass decanter that usually held only water and presented it to Roarke. On this occasion the decanter contained a transparent concoction the color of emeralds. Roarke raised it to eye level so that everyone could see the contents.

"This potion will produce the results you desire." He gestured at Leslie this time, and she silently handed him two shot glasses. "I shall pour each of you ladies one dose, which will last for the next six hours, at which time you must take another dose. There is a total of five doses for each of you in this decanter." So saying, he filled the shot glasses and handed one to each sister. The women lifted their glasses but stopped cold at the same instant, staring at their respective contents in disbelief.

"Mr. Roarke, my potion's blue!" exclaimed Marina.

"And mine's yellow," Miranda said. "How can that be, when the stuff in the bottle is green?"

"They are the two halves of a whole," Roarke told them, "just like the two of you."

"But we just got done telling you we're sick of that," Marina protested. "We want to be totally different from each other, remember?"

"Precisely, and so you shall be," Roarke told them, "as different from each other as blue is from yellow. Take your first doses now, ladies." Miranda and Marina tipped their glasses back and gulped down the contents; and while they were doing so, Leslie caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye. She focused on Adam and found that he was staring intently at the twin sisters, eyes so wide with transfixed fascination that they had gone as round as half-dollars. She eyed him, wondering what it was about their guests that so interested him.

The twins drained their glasses, and Roarke took them and set them aside. The moment the glasses touched the desk, the room went dark except for what looked like multi-colored spotlights on each twin, along with a white one on Roarke. Leslie, Lawrence and Adam, hidden in the dark, watched intently while the colors spun and gyrated, pulsing and throbbing. At the same time odd noises filled the room -- twisting musical notes that ran up and down several octaves' worth of scales, backdropped by a foundation of eerie "chuffing" noises not unlike those of a locomotive at high speed. The chuffing slowed eventually, and the colors gradually grew calmer, till both light and sound finally faded away and the room's illumination reverted to normal daylight.

While all this had been going on, each twin had undergone considerable physical changes, morphing from their natural state into something altogether different. The twins had started out as golden-haired, gray-eyed mirror images of each other. Now Marina was a brunette with tea-brown eyes, her face elfin with a small pointed chin, her stature almost waifish. Miranda had become a redhead with a thick, waist-length braid, a round face and a slightly pudgy build. Her eyes were now the color of peridots.

Roarke glanced at Leslie, and she produced a mirror from one of his desk drawers, while Miranda and Marina stood gaping speechlessly at each other. When Leslie gave Miranda the mirror, Miranda let out a loud squeal of delight and handed the mirror to Marina, clapping her hands. "This is great, Mr. Roarke!" she cried joyfully.

"You worked a miracle!" Marina agreed with a laugh, minutely studying her new face in the mirror. "I couldn't look any different from Miranda now if I went out and got plastic surgery."

"I'm gratified to hear you're pleased," Roarke said with a smile. "I suggest that now you ladies go out and enjoy the island. And don't forget the potion."

"We won't," the no-longer-identical twins chorused. Miranda grabbed the decanter, and both scampered out the door, laughing and chattering breathlessly as they went. The moment the door closed behind them, Roarke scooped up the shot glasses and handed them to Lawrence, who promptly took them out to the kitchen. Leslie replaced the mirror in the drawer, and Roarke retreated behind his desk again, at which point Adam finally stirred from his spot.

"_Mis_-ter _Rrrrro_-arke!" he breathed, clearly awe-stricken. "Never in all me born days have I seen anythin' like that! Ye worked a wonder wi' just a little bit o' liquid! Simply amazin'!"

It was then that Leslie realized Adam's intense scrutiny had not been directed at the twins themselves, but at the potion they'd drunk. Her stomach swooped as if she'd just ridden an elevator fifty stories in ten seconds, and she wondered if Roarke had noticed Adam's inordinate interest.

Roarke gave him an odd look. "Potions are a fairly regular part of granting fantasies," he said.

"Oh aye, but what an astonishin' part! Sure and the leprechauns've never come up wi' anythin' to match that. Ah, sir, ye must teach me how to do that."

Roarke's gaze sharpened at that. "No one else is allowed to handle a potion except for myself," he said, his voice so hard and flat with finality that there could be no mistaking his meaning. _"No one."_

Adam nodded, but Leslie's stomach refused to settle down, and she knew from past experience that this was a bad sign. _Great,_ she thought. _Now we're _really_ in trouble!_


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- May 6, 1984

Leslie turned 19 on Sunday, and there was a special Sunday-evening luau held in honor of her birthday. Maureen and Frida, the only two of her friends who were still on the island, came to a private party held during the lunch hour at the main house. Lawrence, Julie and Adam were there too, and of course so was Roarke. Unlike the others, Adam had no birthday gift for Leslie; but that didn't bother her. What did unnerve her was the fact that he insisted on giving her what he called a birthday kiss. Nobody was watching, conveniently enough, but Leslie saw where he was aiming at the last minute and cranked her head to one side, so that he gave her an innocent smack on the cheek instead.

"Och, lass, ye wound me to the core," Adam complained, a twinkle in his eye.

"You'll recover fast enough, I'm sure," she retorted. "Back off, O'Cearlach, or you'll wish you had." Leslie scowled at him for good measure, then moved away from him to join Maureen and Frida. At the luau, to her immense relief, he didn't get a chance to pull her aside; there were too many people there, and she was the center of attention. By now, though, she had begun to wonder if she ought to tell Lawrence. She considered it for a time, then decided not to disillusion the poor guy. But she resolved to keep a sharp eye on Adam.

- - - - - - - - - May 19, 1984

Adam pleaded ill early in the morning of May 19, so that Roarke, Leslie and Lawrence met their guests without him that weekend. Once the guests -- a pregnant young woman from Spain who was acting as a surrogate mother, and a pensive-looking man who wanted to be reunited with his estranged fiancée -- had been introduced and Roarke had greeted them, Lawrence posed a very strange question. "Neither of these fantasies involves a potion, does it, sir?"

Roarke stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Leslie felt her stomach take another nosedive. "No," Roarke finally said slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"Adam was curious," Lawrence said and shrugged. "Honestly, sir, he does seem taken with potions. I'm not at all certain what interest he has in them. I myself find them rather distasteful, I'm afraid." He glanced at Leslie and chuckled. "Perhaps, miss, you should regale him with the story of the cat potion."

She wondered dismally if it would make any difference, but didn't bother saying anything, since it was clear that neither Roarke nor Lawrence was paying much attention to her. After awhile, though, she forgot about it; Adam lay low all weekend due to whatever illness he had come down with. By the time that weekend's fantasies came to an end and the charter had taken off, Lawrence cast a glance in the general direction in which his cottage lay and said in concern, "I had better see how Adam's feeling this morning. He was quite ill last night, and I may have to drag him off to see a doctor."

But when they arrived at the main house, there was Adam on the front veranda, seated at the table where Roarke, Leslie and Lawrence often took their weekend meals, being served like a king by Mariki. "What a trencherman!" Mariki exclaimed when the trio came within sight; her plump face beamed like a full moon. "He does true justice to my cooking, Mr. Roarke. You sure picked a winner this time." She carried an empty tray off toward her kitchen. Adam, meantime, was still putting away a plateful of food; he nodded at Roarke and Leslie, waved at Lawrence and went right on eating without missing a beat.

Lawrence chuckled indulgently. "I assume you've recovered from whatever you had over the weekend, Adam."

Adam nodded vigorously and audibly swallowed a mouthful. "Aye, that I have. Join me, won't ye?" The others sat down, Roarke looking slightly dubious and Leslie with a suspicious mien about her. But she said nothing, and breakfast passed quietly.

To Leslie's relief, Lawrence took Adam off immediately after breakfast ended, telling the Irishman it was time for him to learn to supervise the daily cleaning of the bungalows, and in spite of herself blew out a relieved sigh. Roarke looked at her with amusement. "Haven't you grown accustomed to Adam's presence yet?" he asked.

Leslie stared back at him with a _well, duh_ look. "Don't hold your breath waiting for that to happen, Mr. Roarke," she advised him, and with that rose from her chair. "I need to go make up my bed…see you later."

"Just a moment, Leslie." Roarke reached out and caught her arm to stop her. "Don't forget, you need to go through the day's mail and schedule new fantasies for August and September."

Leslie nodded. "I'll be down as soon as I've finished cleaning my room." Roarke watched her go, thinking very much out of left field that he wouldn't be surprised if she avoided scheduling any fantasies whose realization required the use of a potion.

Early that afternoon Lawrence and Adam returned to the main house, where Roarke had almost finished catching up on backlogged paperwork and Leslie was engrossed in sorting out fantasy requests. "I'm pleased to report that the bungalows are spotless, sir," Lawrence announced, a little ritual he went through every Monday afternoon.

"Excellent," said Roarke approvingly, at which point Julie arrived with her usual list of available rooms for the week. "Good afternoon, Julie."

"Hi, uncle," Julie said. "Hi, everybody. Oh good, you're here, Lawrence. I had a guest this past weekend who wanted me to serve something called 'bubble and squeak', and I was wondering if you had a recipe for it."

Lawrence regarded her curiously. "Don't tell me your cousins Niles and Eileen never served you and your sister that dish when you were in England as a girl," he said.

"No, Delphine asked about it because it was such a funny name, and Niles and Eileen told her she didn't want that, it was too greasy or something. So we never got to try it. But it can't be all that hard to make, can it?"

"Of course not, and it need not be greasy either," Lawrence said. "As a matter of fact, I do have a recipe for that very dish. Why don't we try it now? That is," and he turned to Roarke, "if you don't need me for anything at the moment, sir."

"No," said Roarke, "by all means, go ahead. Adam, please go to the pool and supervise its cleaning. I have a few errands to run, so I will be gone most of the afternoon. Leslie, will you be all right here by yourself?"

"Sure, I'll be fine," she said. "Actually, once I get done choosing fantasies, I promised Maureen I'd go over to the big mall on Coral Island with her. Is that okay?"

Roarke nodded assent. "Don't forget your blue pass so you can return," he reminded her. "Very well, we'll all meet at supper this evening." He, Julie, Lawrence and Adam exited, and Leslie got back to work. It took her another hour or so before she finished; she grabbed a pass and her purse, checked the clock and hurried out of the house.

Silence reigned for about fifteen minutes; then the door slowly opened and Adam stuck his head inside. Carefully he scanned the empty office and smiled in satisfaction. "Aye," he murmured aloud, "perfect." He shut the door and headed down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen, whistling "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen" on the way.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- May 21, 1984

Leslie awoke in the middle of that night for some reason and lay in bed for a moment staring at the canopy over her bed, trying to remember if she had been dreaming before she woke. Unable to recall any dreams, she gave up, only then becoming aware that she was very thirsty. There was only one cure for that. Heaving a sigh, she got out of bed and stole downstairs as quietly as she could in order to keep from waking Roarke. It was late enough that even he had retired for the night, and the entire house was dark and quiet.

She picked her way across Roarke's elegantly appointed office, took the steps up into the entry foyer and made a left turn, which took her into the hallway that led to the kitchen. This was Mariki's domain and Leslie didn't often have a reason to go in there. The big industrial-style stainless-steel refrigerator hummed quietly in one corner, and Leslie pulled open the door and stood for a while perusing the contents. Finally, behind all manner of fruits, containers of preserves and jams, and a crock of butter, she saw a clear acrylic pitcher containing what was left of the bright-red sangria punch Mariki had concocted for her birthday two weeks before. She snaked her arm in around the various other items and managed to extract the pitcher, found a glass, poured out a quantity and drained half in one shot.

With the worst of her thirst slaked, she idly swirled the contents of the glass and wandered over to the room's one window, across the room from the doorway she had come through, and gazed at the night sky while she took her time sipping the rest of the punch. After awhile she refilled the glass, which emptied the pitcher. This time the punch seemed oddly sweeter than before, and she wondered absently if some ingredient had settled over time. It still tasted all right, at any rate, and she eventually downed the last drops, put the glass and pitcher into the sink and padded back down the hall and through the office.

Halfway up the stairs she began to feel abruptly woozy; her head started to spin a little, and she had to take the rest of the steps on all fours. She barely made it to the bed before collapsing across it in a deep, almost coma-like sleep.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Roarke, Lawrence and Adam met for breakfast and waited about ten minutes for Leslie, but she didn't appear. "Has she taken sick, perhaps?" Lawrence asked.

Roarke shook his head slowly. "She was fine last night," he said. "She did go to bed rather late, however. We may as well eat without her; she will probably be up in another hour or so."

But when ten o'clock came and went and there was still no sign of Leslie, Roarke decided it was time to roust her out of bed. Lawrence and Adam were both out on errands, and it was time Leslie got up and did her share.

When he topped the steps and turned to Leslie's door, though, he was surprised to find it standing open; usually Leslie left her door just ajar enough to allow the night breeze to drift through. He stepped inside and stared at her: she was lying atop the bedcovers, sprawled out as if she had taken a fall, and she was wearing her slippers. Her breathing was unusually slow and deep. Roarke frowned, now concerned, and gently shook her. "Leslie, wake up," he said.

But she didn't respond at all, either to his voice or the shaking; when he stopped, she just lay inert. A frisson of alarm snaked up Roarke's spine and he shook her a little harder this time. "Leslie," he said sharply. Still no response. Roarke paused for a moment, gathered his concentration, then placed his hand over Leslie's head so that his fingertips touched her forehead through her bangs. He drew in a breath, closed his eyes, and fractionally tightened his hold on his daughter's head.

This time he was rewarded with a weak moan. Roarke opened his eyes and gazed intently at her, still concentrating; at last Leslie's eyelids fluttered and she peered blearily at him. "Mr. Roarke," she murmured in drowsy surprise.

Roarke released her head and gently urged her into a sitting position. "Why did you sleep so late this morning?" he wanted to know.

Leslie shook her head violently several times, trying to clear her foggy brain. "I…I don't know," she mumbled. "What time is it?"

"Past ten," he said, a note of gentle rebuke in his voice. "You should have been up two hours ago. Do you feel all right?"

He watched her as she ran a hand through her hair, squinted and blinked, and looked thoroughly confused. "I'm not sure," she finally said, half whispering, as if it were an effort to speak at all. "I feel okay, but my brain…I feel as if I'm just coming out of anesthesia or something." It took her a full sixty seconds to get this sentence out of her mouth; Roarke could see that she was actively fighting off drowsiness.

He stared at her, perplexed and worried all at once. "Did something happen last night?"

Memory returned to her then. "I got…thirsty last night," she began, and told him about going to the kitchen for something to drink. Throughout her narrative, she dropped off to sleep six times, and each time Roarke had to shake her awake again and remind her to finish her story.

When she finally did, Roarke thought carefully over everything she had told him, paying particular attention to her description of the leftover punch. "You say that the sangria tasted sweeter the second time?" he asked, speaking a little sharply to keep her awake.

Leslie nodded. "It seemed…kind of…thicker too," she managed, rubbing her eyes like a small child in need of a nap. "Oh Mr. Roarke…I'm so sleepy…"

And that was when Roarke realized what must have happened. "I know, child, I know," he said softly. "I don't know how it happened, Leslie, but I believe you somehow managed to ingest a potion with that punch."

It was the word _potion_ that did it. Shocked fully awake, Leslie stared at him. "Adam," she burst out. "God only knows why he did it, but I just _know_ this is his fault."

Roarke eyed her, half skeptical, half convinced she was right. "You have no proof, Leslie," he told her. "You can't simply accuse --"

"Mr. Roarke, sir! Is anyone here?" sang out an Irish accent from downstairs at just that moment. Both Roarke and Leslie looked instinctively at the doorway, as though Adam had just appeared there; then Roarke stood up.

"Wait here, Leslie," he said, squeezing her shoulder in reassurance, "and try to stay awake. I'll speak to Adam and see what he knows."

In his office he found Adam inspecting the bookshelves with curiosity, and cleared his throat to get the Irishman's attention. Adam turned and beamed at him. "Ah, Mr. Roarke! Everythin's under control. Thought I'd come back for a spell an' see if there's anythin' else needs doin'."

Roarke shook his head absently. "At the moment, no." He watched Adam cross the room towards his desk before the idea occurred to him. "However, perhaps you can help me do a little detective work. Someone on this island appears to have invented a new type of anesthetic for children. I'm told it tastes sweet, perhaps like juice, and that it does the job very nicely. What the hospital would like to know is the inventor's identity, so that he or she can be properly credited with the invention."

Adam looked quite surprised. "Och, sir, how interestin'! Aye, that I can help ye wi'. How did ye find out about it?"

"Leslie was chosen as a volunteer to test it," Roarke said, a trace of irony in his tone that Adam seemed to miss. "The initial trial run works…extremely well, shall we say."

Adam's expression of interested curiosity gave way to puzzlement. "I knew nothin' about that. When did she test it?"

"Last night. It's my understanding that she drank it with the leftover punch from her birthday party. It clearly works; that was the reason she wasn't with us at breakfast this morning. Even now she…"

"But that wasn't what it was supposed to do! It was meant to be a love potion! How th' divil could it've done that noo?" Roarke stared at Adam while the latter paced the floor in agitation, ranting thoughtlessly in disbelief. "I studied every ingredient as carefully as possible, an' that ol' bag down the other end of the island tol' me that Shakespeare's flower really works."

"_I knew it!!"_ shouted Leslie's voice from the top of the steps, and both Roarke and Adam whipped around to stare at her as she began to stumble down, in a peculiar combination of rage and uncontrollable drowsiness. For the moment her anger was keeping her awake enough to vent itself on Adam. "You absolute sneak! I knew there was something about you I shouldn't trust! You and your potions! I ought to strangle you!" Stunned, Adam actually stood there and let her advance on him with hands outstretched and curled as if to wrap around his neck; Roarke had to hasten out from behind the desk and restrain his daughter before she could do any actual damage. But it was plain that Adam had fully expected Leslie's reaction to him to be something other than unbridled fury, and he seemed to be frozen with incredulity.

"Lass, how on earth…" he finally began.

She was struggling to free herself from Roarke's grip; Roarke had to use more and more strength to keep her from breaking loose; and Adam was gawking at her like an idiot when Lawrence and Julie happened to walk in, the latter carrying a covered casserole dish. "Anyone for bubble and squeak?" Julie asked brightly.

"Great heavens above, what on earth has happened here?" Lawrence burst out.

"Your _friend,"_ Leslie snarled the italicized word, "tried to seduce me with a potion!"

Lawrence looked poleaxed. "What?"

"It appears that Adam was trying to recreate Love Potion Number 9," Roarke explained sardonically, "and instead created a sleeping draught that turns out to have been the reason Leslie didn't come to breakfast this morning. She apparently ingested it last night with what was left of her birthday punch. Perhaps, Lawrence, in your attempts to fit Adam in, you somehow failed to explain the provenance of potions, or the importance of my rule about no one except myself having anything to do with their creation or administration." He tightened his grip on Leslie still more. "I suggest you remove Adam from the premises now, before I find myself unable to retain control over my daughter and she does him bodily harm."

Lawrence sighed deeply, looking extremely mournful, and took Adam by the arm. "Come along, then. I'm afraid you have a lot of explaining to do, old chap."

Adam was still overwhelmed with the fact that his concoction had failed to serve its intended purpose. "But Lawrence, she was supposed to fall in love with me! I even went out and got some love-in-idleness to make it work. That ol' hag I went to said this is the only place on earth it grows anymore. I was plannin' to ship some seeds home an' try growin' it in my clover patch…" The door closed on these words, and Roarke finally released Leslie. Julie had been standing in the same spot the entire time, gaping at the scene.

"I wish you'd let me throttle him like I wanted to," Leslie complained, her rage slowly fading to annoyance. "It would've saved Lawrence the trouble of sending him all the way back to Ireland."

"Perhaps," Roarke replied, dusting off his hands, "but then you would have had to serve time for murder. Surely that would have ruined your summer." He smiled teasingly.

"Uncle, did he say 'love-in-idleness'?" Julie demanded finally. "Was he right? Does it really grow here on Fantasy Island like he claimed? Or do you think the old woman he was talking about just tricked him and we don't really have it?"

"Of course it grows here," Roarke said matter-of-factly. "But only one person on the island knows precisely where, and it certainly isn't Adam's…uh, elderly lady." At which point he caught Leslie as she collapsed. Adam's potion had regained strength and knocked her out cold again; she lay in Roarke's arms like a rag doll with the stuffing removed.

"Poor kid," Julie said sympathetically. "Isn't there any cure, uncle?"

Roarke sighed and lifted Leslie up, starting for the stairs. "Time, Julie, that's all. She'll simply have to sleep it off." He hesitated, peered at the casserole dish in Julie's hands, and added, "Why don't you take that down to the kitchen? Have Mariki keep it warm and she can serve it with lunch. You may as well join us, since I seriously doubt Leslie will be able to." Julie watched Roarke carry Leslie back upstairs, shaking her head slowly.

"Adam O'Cearlach, I think your days are numbered," she murmured to herself at last, turning towards the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- May 22, 1984

Adam's "love" potion had turned out to be so strong that it kept Leslie unconscious for the rest of Monday and well into Tuesday morning. Since, of course, this prevented her from doing her usual errands and rounds for Roarke in the course of preparing for the upcoming weekend's fantasies, Roarke pressed Adam into service out of necessity. It was probably the only reason he didn't fire Adam right away. As for Lawrence, he maintained the typical British stiff upper lip; but when Leslie finally came back to life shortly before lunchtime on Tuesday and Roarke called a meeting before the meal, the Englishman could no longer conceal his immense disappointment in Adam, not to mention sheer mortification in front of Roarke.

"I admit to gettin' a bit carried away, Mr. Roarke," Adam said sorrowfully, "but y'see, I was so taken wi' yer lass. Perhaps I was _too_ favored wi' the luck o' the Irish, y's'pose? It made me think I could get anythin' I wanted, anytime I wanted. An' now I can see it's not so."

"A shame it took something as serious as this to make you see that," Lawrence said, shaking his head. Turning to Roarke, he said, "If you prefer, sir, I myself shall escort Adam to the charter plane, if you'd only advise me as to when the next one leaves."

Roarke consulted his pocket watch. "As a matter of fact, it leaves in precisely one hour," he said. "You have that long to get your effects together, Mr. O'Cearlach, and be on your way back home." His manner was icy, and neither Lawrence nor Adam could blame him. "On your way out, Lawrence, please stop by Julie's house and have her come here. It looks as if she will have a busy summer after all." Without looking at either of his assistants, he reached for a folder, and Lawrence and Adam took it as a signal of dismissal. They acted upon it, and once they had stepped onto the porch, Lawrence turned to Adam.

"Do you realize what a fool I must look like to Mr. Roarke now, because of you?" Lawrence demanded, about as angry as he ever got. "Perhaps it's as well I'm leaving for England after this coming weekend, because I am not at all certain he'd want me here, simply for showing such bad judgment in persuading him to hire you."

Adam sighed heavily and gave Lawrence a weary stare. "Aye, I understand that. But Lawrence, if ye'll recall, I really didn't want to come here. Better ye should ha' listened to me an' let sleepin' Irishmen lie. Now, since ye're leavin' an' I'm bein' removed in disgrace, what's Mr. Roarke plannin' to do for an assistant?"

"Utilize his goddaughter, I should expect," Lawrence mused, "even though she's every bit as busy with her little inn as Mr. Roarke is with his livelihood." He looked up and focused sharply on Adam. "Thanks to your behavior, I dare not offer to help search for another replacement. He may even decide to release me from this position before my final weekend here. And by God, Adam O'Cearlach, it is entirely and solely your fault. I suggest we hasten ourselves, because I have a strong suspicion that if you miss this charter and Mr. Roarke finds out, you may not leave this island alive."

Fortunately for all involved, Adam did not miss the one-o'-clock charter, and Lawrence breathed a sigh of relief to see the plane soar away into the bright blue sky. Now he had something entirely different to worry about. He made his way back to the main house, where he found Roarke, Julie and Leslie in Roarke's office, waiting for him.

"Thank you for coming, Lawrence," Roarke said. "Did everything go as ordered?"

"Like clockwork, sir," Lawrence assured him before taking a deep breath. "Sir, since I am the one who talked you into hiring Adam, I truly couldn't blame you if you decided to dismiss me before this last weekend. I showed quite poor judgment, and I apologize profusely on Adam's behalf. And especially to you, miss," he added at Leslie, "since you are the one who suffered most from Adam's…shenanigan."

Leslie sighed softly. "It wasn't your fault, Lawrence," she said. "After all, you really believed that overgrown leprechaun was the right man for the job. Lord knows you kept singing his praises to both Mr. Roarke and me for days before he first showed up here."

"He hasn't changed," Lawrence said unhappily. "Still as much the wild child as ever. Once again, Mr. Roarke, I apologize. A thousand times over, I apologize."

Roarke chuckled, as though taking pity on him. "Apologies accepted, Lawrence. And no, I am not dismissing you simply because you misjudged him. I expect you to carry out all your regular duties and to be here this last weekend before we must see you off to England."

"What will you do about getting a new assistant?" Lawrence asked hesitantly.

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and smiled wryly, at precisely the same moment. "Leave that to me," Roarke said. Those four words were all it took for Lawrence to turn bright red.

Julie sat up straight and offered, "Well then, uncle, since I'm the one who's going to be playing temporary assistant, maybe I should try finding the replacement."

Roarke cleared his throat. "Thank you, Julie, but…that won't be necessary," he said finally.

"Don't you trust me?" Julie asked, looking hurt.

Roarke was clearly at a loss for words, and Leslie simply sat, unwilling to get involved. Lawrence finally grinned and said, "Miss Julie, I suggest you quit while you're ahead. Sir, I'm off to complete my duties. Why don't you come with me, Miss Julie, and I'll advise you on some refinements to your version of bubble and squeak."

Julie twisted around in her seat to stare at him in disbelief. "But you said I did an excellent job!" She jumped out of her chair and advanced on Lawrence, who began to back towards the foyer steps. "I'll have you know I'm a _darn_ good cook, and you yourself said it tasted just like the bubble and squeak your mother used to make. And what's more, I'll bet you every single one of my relatives in England would tell me it tastes like I was born and raised there. Refinements, huh? I'll show you refinements! …" On that argumentative note, Lawrence and Julie departed, and Leslie turned to Roarke, only to see him resting his forehead in both hands as though suffering a headache.

She smiled. "Well, I'm off to do my rounds. Don't worry, Mr. Roarke. Pretty soon our lives will be nice and dull again." With that, she gave him a kiss on the cheek and departed with his relieved, if weary-sounding, chuckle resonating in the air.

THE END


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